Tuesday, May 24, 2016

"All art is kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story; to vomit the anguish up." - James Baldwin

Late last year, I suffered a miscarriage. I know that's a tough way to start
a blog. Okay, it's depressing as hell. The thing is, I've barely written here
since. I've barely written anywhere since. I have realized that maybe I need to
let some of the depressing stuff out so I can get back to the good. I have been
blogging since 2007. Back then, I was shouting into a dark space and really
didn't know if anyone was listening. It was cathartic for me. Validating. It
allowed me to process the joyous transitions, the unfathomable pain and my
personal growth with clarity and at times, company. Lately, I've been kind of
afraid of the blank space. Any blank space. This blank space. I think its
because I haven't been honest so here it is... all of it.

I had a miscarriage. Even now, its difficult to write those words without a
blush of embarrassment flooding through me. First of all, it's an ugly, freaking word. It sounds more suited to dropping something accidentally. That shattered
glass on the floor - I miscarried. That milk in Isle 1, miscarriage. It doesn't
sound like loss. Like irretrievable, gut-wrenching loss. I didn't tell many
people at first. Not just because I hate the word but because my sadness felt
so darn silly. Even upon finding out, I kept muttering this is so stupid to my
husband. I was embarrassed by the tears rolling uncontrollably down my face. Embarrassed
by the tears in his eyes. After all, I didn't know if it was a boy or girl. I
didn't give him or her a name. We never even met. However, I was full with her.
For a brief space in time, there were so many possibilities. Early morning
snuggles and wet kisses. Coos and toothless smiles. We weren't planning to have
another child but sitting in the doctor's office, clutching my husband's hand
and watching my doctor's mouth as she muttered the words, "I am so
sorry" - all I could think about was how badly I wanted to hold him in my
arms. How very badly I wanted to smell her and watch her grow. Suddenly,
something I hadn't even known I wanted was all I wanted and all I couldn't
have.

News of our rainbow came on a Sunday in March. My husband and I had just
celebrated our 10th wedding anniversary and spent four days at the ocean. A
month before, we decided we would try again. We didn't want to replace what we
had lost but we had learned from our pain. Simply put, we realized that we
wanted another child and losing the baby taught us how unfinished our family
felt. So when it was safe, we tried again. The test that night was undeniable
positive. We were watching The Walking Dead and had guests. I checked in the
bathroom on a commercial break and when I returned to the couch, I texted him
the news, even though he was right beside me. We were like two kids with a
secret, stealing kisses when no one was looking and laughing for absolutely no
reason at all. I can only imagine what our guests thought. The new guy is
growing at a furious pace, even faster than his two older brothers. He will
arrive in November. Almost a year to the date we learned we were carrying the baby we lost.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't afraid. I am so afraid. I am afraid
something will happen to rip him away from me. Me away from him. Him away from
us. I am afraid to love him so much even though I barely know him. At every
doctor's appointment, I hold my breath until I hear his heartbeat. Until I see
is little body moving and stretching. I cry every time. Every single time. I
just have to keep reminding myself he is here. Now he is here. I have no reason
to believe that this time next year, he won't be joining his brothers in
driving us absolutely crazy.

Two weeks ago, my husband lost his dad. I'm not mentioning that to win the
most depressing post ever award (though, admit it, I'm in the running). I'm
mentioning it because with my last son, I lost my older brother and my
grandfather. When we got the news, for a moment, I felt ill. Why is it that new
life seems to be accentuated by death? Why can't my father in law be here to
meet his newest grandson? Why does the joy of this new life have to be marred
by the pain of death? I confessed my feelings to a dear friend and all she
could see was the beauty. Twice, she said, I have been chosen to be a vehicle of life in
the time of death. How lucky was I to give birth to such charmed children? I
was reminded of how happy my mom was holding my youngest in the wake of losing
her own child. How happy my mother in law, husband and sister in law will be
holding this new life in her arms.

I just want to thank everyone for sticking with me on the blog and social
media while I worked out the more difficult parts of this year. I'd be a fool
to say its behind me because no one know what the future holds. I also imagine
the words would be pretty empty if I'd never been forced to survive. I will say
this... spilling these words here has felt marvelous and necessary. Hopefully, that
means now they won't stop...

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Faye McCray

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"You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who had ever been alive." - James Baldwin

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Leaves of Grass

Come, said my soul, Such verses for my Body let us write, (for we are one,) That should I after return, Or, long, long hence, in other spheres, There to some group of mates the chants resuming, (Tallying Earth's soil, trees, winds, tumultuous waves,) Ever with pleas'd smile I may keep on, Ever and ever yet the verses owning—as, first, I here and now Signing for Soul and Body, set to them my name,